1984 IN DA HOOD
by Tor Johnson
Summary: Written up in 1948, 1984 was George Orwell's chillin prophecy bout tha future fo' realz fo' realz. And while 1984 has come n' gone, Orwell's narratizzle is timelier than eva. I be runnin hoes up in 2013. 1984 presents a startlin n' hustlin vision of tha ghetto, so bangin dat it is straight-up convincin from start ta finish. No one can deny tha juice of dis novel, its hold on tha im


George Orwell's 1984 IN DA HOOD

Chapta 1

It was a funky-ass bright cold dizzle up in April, n' tha clocks was strikin thirteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Winston

Smith, slipped

quickly all up in tha glass doorz of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough

to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enterin along wit his muthafuckin ass.

Da hallway smelt of boiled cabbage n' oldschool rag mats fo' realz. At one end of it a

coloured poster, too big-ass fo' indoor display, had been tacked ta tha wall. It

depicted simply a enormous face, mo' than a metre wide: tha grill of a playa of

about forty-ﬁve, wit a heavy black moustache n' ruggedly handsome features.

Winston made fo' tha stairs. It was no bust tryin tha lift. Even all up in tha best

of times it was seldom working, n' at present tha electric current was cut oﬀ

durin daylight hours. It was part of tha economizzle drive up in preparation fo' Hate

Week. Da ﬂat was seven ﬂights up, n' Winston, whoz ass was thirty-nine n' had

a varicose ulcer above his bangin right ankle, went slowly, restin nuff muthafuckin times on the

way. On each landing, opposite tha lift-shaft, tha posta wit tha enormous face

gazed from tha wall. It was one of dem pictures which is so contrived that

the eyes follow you bout when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING

YOU, tha caption beneath it ran.

Inside tha ﬂat a gangbangin' fruitizzle voice was readin up a list of ﬁgures which had

suttin' ta do wit tha thang of pig-iron. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da voice came from an

oblong metal plaque like a thugged-out dulled mirror which formed part of tha surface of the

right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch n' tha voice sank somewhat, though

the lyrics was still distinguishable. Da instrument (the telescreen, it was

called) could be dimmed yo, but there was no way of shuttin it oﬀ straight-up yo. He

moved over ta tha window: a smallish, frail ﬁgure, tha meagrenizz of his body

merely emphasized by tha blue overalls which was tha uniform of tha party.

His afro was straight-up fair, his wild lil' grill naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse

soap n' blunt razor blades n' tha cold of tha winter dat had just ended.

Outside, even all up in tha shut window-pane, tha ghetto looked cold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Down

in tha street lil eddiez of wind was whirlin dust n' torn paper tha fuck into spirals,

and though tha sun was shinin n' tha sky a harsh blue, there seemed ta be

no colour up in anything, except tha postas dat was plastered all over dis biiiatch. The

black-moustachio'd grill gazed down from every last muthafuckin commandin corner. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was

one on tha house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING

YOU, tha caption holla'd, while tha dark eyes looked deep tha fuck into Winston's own.

Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, ﬂapped ﬁtfully up in the

wind, alternately coverin n' uncoverin tha single word INGSOC. In tha far

distizzle a helicopter skimmed down between tha roofs, hovered fo' a instant

1like a funky-ass blueforty, n' darted away again n' again n' again wit a cold-ass lil curvin ﬂight. It was tha five-o

patrol, snoopin tha fuck into people's windows. Da patrols did not matter, however.

Only tha Thought Popo mattered.

Behind Winston's back tha voice from tha telescreen was still babblin away

about pig-iron n' tha overfulﬁlment of tha Ninth Three-Year Plan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da telescreen received n' transmitted simultaneously fo' realz. Any sound dat Winston made,

above tha level of a straight-up low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long

as he remained within tha ﬁeld of vision which tha metal plaque commanded, he

could be peeped as well as heard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! There waz of course no way of knowin whether

you was bein watched at any given moment yo. How tha fuck often, or on what tha fuck system,

the Thought Popo plugged up in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was

even conceivable dat they watched dem hoes all tha time. But at any rate

they could plug up in yo' wire whenever they wanted to. Yo ass had ta live - did

live, from g-thang dat became instinct - up in tha assumption dat every last muthafuckin sound you

made was overheard, and, except up in darkness, every last muthafuckin movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned ta tha telescreen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was safer, though, as

he well knew, even a funky-ass back can be revealin fo' realz. A kilometre away tha Ministry of

Truth, his thugged-out lil' place of work, towered vast n' white above tha grimy landscape.

This, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought wit a sort of vague distaste - dis was London, chizzle hood

of Airstrip One, itself tha third most populouz of tha provincez of Oceania.

Dude tried ta squeeze up some childhood memory dat should tell his ass whether

London had always been like like dis y'all. Were there always these vistas of

rottin nineteenth-century houses, they sides shored up wit baulkz of timber,

their windows patched wit cardboard n' they roofs wit corrugated iron,

their crazy garden walls saggin up in all directions, biatch? And tha bombed cribs where

the plasta dust swirled up in tha air n' tha willow-herb straggled over tha heaps of

rubble; n' tha places where tha bombs had cleared a larger patch n' there had

sprung up sordid coloniez of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses, biatch? But it was no

use, his schmoooove ass could not remember: not a god damn thang remained of his childhood except a series

of bright-lit tableaux occurrin against no background n' mostly unintelligible.

Da Ministry of Truth - Minitrue, up in Shitpeak* - was startlingly diﬀerent

from any other object up in sight. It was a enormous pyramidal structure of

glitterin white concrete, soarin up, terrace afta terrace, 300 metres tha fuck into the

air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. From where Winston stood it was just possible ta read, picked up on its

white grill up in elegant lettering, tha three sloganz of tha Party:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

Da Ministry of Truth contained, it was holla'd, three thousand rooms above

ground level, n' correspondin ramiﬁcations below. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scattered bout London

there was just three other buildingz of similar appearizzle n' size. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So straight-up did they dwarf tha surroundin architecture dat from tha roof of Victory

Mansions you could peep all four of dem simultaneously. They was tha cribs

of tha four Ministries between which tha entire apparatuz of posse was

divided. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself wit hype, entertainment, ejaculation, n' tha ﬁne arts. Da Ministry of Peace, which concerned

itself wit war. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da Ministry of Love, which maintained law n' order fo' realz. And

the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible fo' economic aﬀairs. Their names,

in Shitpeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, n' Minifuckloads.

Da Ministry of Ludd was tha straight-up frightenin one. There was no windows

2in it at all. Winston had never been inside tha Ministry of Love, nor within half

a kilometre of dat shit. It was a place impossible ta enter except on oﬃcial bidnizz,

and then only by penetratin all up in a maze of barbed-wire entanglements,

steel doors, n' hidden machine-gun nests. Even tha streets leadin up ta its

outer barriers was roamed by gorilla-faced guardz up in black uniforms, armed

with jointed truncheons.

Winston turned round abruptly yo. Dude had set his wild lil' features tha fuck into tha expression

of on tha down-low optimizzle which it was advisable ta wear when facin tha telescreen.

Dude crossed tha room tha fuck into tha tiny kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. By leavin tha Ministry at dis time

of dizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had sacriﬁced his fuckin lunch up in tha canteen, n' da thug was aware dat there

was no chicken up in tha kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got

to be saved fo' tomorrow's breakfast yo. Dude took down from tha shelf a funky-ass forty

of colourless liquid wit a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave

oﬀ a sickly, oily smell, az of Chinese rice-spirit, n' I aint talkin bout no muthafuckin Jack Daniels neither. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Winston poured up nearly a

teacupful, nerved his dirty ass fo' a shock, n' gulped it down like a thugged-out dose of medicine.

Instantly his wild lil' grill turned scarlet n' tha gin n juice ran outta his wild lil' fuckin eyes. Da stuﬀ

was like nitric acid, n' moreover, up in swallowin it one had tha sensation of being

hit on tha back of tha head wit a rubber club. Da next moment, however,

the burnin up in his belly took a dirt nap down n' tha ghetto fuckin started ta look mo' cheerful.

Dude took a cold-ass lil blunt from a cold-ass lil crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES

and incautiously held it upright, whereupon tha bluntz fell up on ta tha ﬂoor.

With tha next da thug was mo' successful yo. Dude went back ta tha living-room n' sat

down at a lil' small-ass table dat stood ta tha left of tha telescreen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. From tha table

drawer tha pimpin' muthafucka took up a penholda, a funky-ass forty of ink, n' a thick, quarto-sized blank

book wit a red back n' a marbled cover.

For some reason tha telescreen up in tha living-room was up in a unusual position.

Instead of bein placed, as was normal, up in tha end wall, where it could command

the whole room, it was up in tha longer wall, opposite tha window. To one side

of it there was a shallow alcove up in which Winston was now chillin, n' which,

when tha ﬂats was built, had probably been intended ta hold bookshelves. By

chillin up in tha alcove, n' keepin well back, Winston was able ta remain outside

the range of tha telescreen, so far as sight went yo. Dude could be heard, of course,

but so long as da perved-out muthafucka stayed up in his thugged-out lil' present posizzle his schmoooove ass could not be seen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was

kinda tha unusual geography of tha room dat had suggested ta his ass tha thing

that da thug was now bout ta do.

But it had also been suggested by tha book dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had just taken outta the

drawer. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. It was a peculiarly dope book. Its smooth creamy paper, a lil

yellowed by age, waz of a kind dat had not been manufactured fo' at least forty

years past yo. Dude could guess, however, dat tha book was much olda than that.

Dude had peeped it lyin up in tha window of a gangbangin' frowsy lil junk-shop up in a slummy

quarter of tha hood (just what tha fuck quarter da ruffneck did not now remember) n' had been

stricken immediately by a overwhelmin desire ta possess dat shit. Jam members

were supposed not ta go tha fuck into ordinary shops ('dealin on tha free market', it was

called) yo, but tha rule was not strictly kept, cuz there was various things,

like fuckin shoelaces n' razor blades, which it was impossible ta git hold of up in any

other way yo. Dude had given a quick glizzle up n' down tha street n' then had

slipped inside n' looted tha book fo' two dollars ﬁfty fo' realz. At tha time da thug was not

consciouz of wantin it fo' any particular purpose yo. Dude had carried it guiltily

home up in his briefcase. Even wit not a god damn thang freestyled up in it, it was a cold-ass lil compromising

possession.

3Da thang dat da thug was bout ta do was ta open a thugged-out diary. This was not illegal

(nothang was illegal, since there was no longer any laws) yo, but if detected it was

reasonably certain dat it would be punished by dirtnap, or at least by twenty-

ﬁve muthafuckin years up in a gangbangin' forced-labour camp. Winston ﬁtted a nib tha fuck into tha penholda

and sucked it ta git tha grease oﬀ. Da pen was a archaic instrument, seldom

used even fo' signatures, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had procured one, furtively n' wit some

diﬃculty, simply cuz of a gangbangin' feelin dat tha dope creamy paper deserved

to be freestyled on wit a real nib instead of bein scratched wit a ink-pencil.

Actually da thug was not used ta freestylin by hand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Apart from straight-up short notes, it was

usual ta dictate every last muthafuckin thang tha fuck into tha speak-write which waz of course impossible

for his thugged-out lil' present purpose yo. Dude dipped tha pen tha fuck into tha ink n' then faltered for

just a second. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A tremor had gone all up in his bowels. To mark tha paper was

the decisive act. In lil' small-ass clumsy lettas da thug wrote:

April 4th, 1984.

Dude sat back fo' realz. A sense of complete muthafuckin helplessnizz had descended upon his muthafuckin ass. To

begin with, da ruffneck did not know wit any certainty dat dis was 1984. It must be

round bout dat date, since da thug was fairly shizzle dat his thugged-out age was thirty-nine, and

he believed dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been born up in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible

nowadays ta pin down any date within a year or two.

For whom, it suddenly occurred ta his ass ta wonder, was da thug freestylin dis diary, biatch? For tha future, fo' tha unborn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His mind hovered fo' a moment round

the doubtful date on tha page, n' then fetched up wit a funky-ass bump against the

Shitpeak word doublethink. For tha ﬁrst time tha magnitude of what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had

undertaken came home ta his muthafuckin ass yo. How tha fuck could you communicate wit tha future?

It waz of its nature impossible. Either tha future would resemble tha present,

in which case it would not dig him: or it would be diﬀerent from it, and

his predicament would be meaningless.

For some time da perved-out muthafucka sat gazin stupidly all up in tha paper. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da telescreen had

changed over ta strident military beatz. Drop dis like itz hot! It was curious dat da perved-out muthafucka seemed not

merely ta have lost tha juice of expressin his dirty ass yo, but even ta have forgotten

what it was dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had originally intended ta say. For weeks past dat schmoooove muthafucka had been

makin locked n loaded fo' dis moment, n' it had never crossed his crazy-ass mind dat anything

would be needed except courage. Da actual freestylin would be easy as fuck fo' realz. All dat schmoooove muthafucka had

to do was ta transfer ta paper tha interminable restless monologue dat had

been hustlin inside his head, literally fo' muthafuckin years fo' realz. At dis moment, however, even

the monologue had dried up. Mo'over his varicose ulcer had begun itching

unbearably yo. Dude dared not scratch it, cuz if da ruffneck did so it always became

inﬂamed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da secondz was tickin by yo. Dude was consciouz of not a god damn thang except the

blanknizz of tha page up in front of him, tha itchin of tha skin above his thugged-out ankle,

the blarin of tha beatz, n' a slight boozinizz caused by tha gin.

Suddenly his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started freestylin up in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what

he was settin down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His lil' small-ass but childish handwritin straggled up n' down

the page, sheddin ﬁrst its capital lettas n' ﬁnally even its full stops:

April 4th, 1984. Last night ta tha ﬂicks fo' realz. All war ﬁlms. One straight-up good

one of a shizzle full of refugees bein bombed somewhere up in tha Mediterranean.

Audience much amused by shotz of a pimped out big-ass fat playa tryin ta swim away

with a helicopter afta him, ﬁrst you saw his ass wallowin along up in tha gin n juice like a

porpoise, then you saw his ass all up in tha helicoptas gunsights, then da thug was full

of holez n' tha sea round his ass turned pink n' da perved-out muthafucka sank as suddenly as though

the holez had let up in tha water, crew shoutin wit laughter when da perved-out muthafucka sank.

4then you saw a lifeboat full of lil pimps wit a helicopter hoverin over dat shit. there

was a middle-aged biatch might done been a jewess chillin up in tha bow with

a lil pimp bout three muthafuckin years oldschool up in her arms. lil pimp beatboxin wit fright

and hidin his head between her breasts as if da thug was tryin ta burrow right into

her n' tha biatch puttin her arms round his ass n' comfortin his ass although

she was blue wit fright her muthafuckin ass, all tha time coverin his ass up as much as possible

as if dat dunkadelic hoe thought her arms could keep tha bullets oﬀ his muthafuckin ass. then tha helicopter

planted a 20 kilo bomb up in among dem terriﬁc ﬂash n' tha boat went all to

matchwood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! then there was a straight-up dope blasted of a cold-ass lil child's arm goin up up

right up tha fuck into tha air a helicopter wit a cold-ass lil camera up in its nozzle must have followed

it up n' there was a shitload of applause from tha jam seats but a biatch down in

the prole part of tha doggy den suddenly started kickin up a gangbangin' fuss n' shoutin they

didnt oughter of flossed it not up in front of lil playas they didnt it aint right not up in front

of lil playas it aint until tha five-o turned her turned her up i dont suppose anything

happened ta her no muthafucka cares what tha fuck tha prolez say typical prole erection they

never

Winston stopped writing, kinda cuz da thug was suﬀerin from cramp yo. He

did not know what tha fuck had made his ass pour up dis stream of rubbish. But the

curious thang was dat while da thug was bustin so a straight-up diﬀerent memory had

clariﬁed itself up in his crazy-ass mind, ta tha point where he almost felt equal ta writing

it down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was, he now realized, cuz of dis other incident dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had

suddenly decided ta come home n' begin tha diary todizzle.

It had happened dat mornin all up in tha Ministry, if anythang so nebulous could

be holla'd ta happen.

It was nearly eleven hundred, n' up in tha Recordz Department, where Winston worked, they was draggin tha chairs outta tha cubiclez n' grouping

them up in tha centre of tha hall opposite tha big-ass telescreen, up in preparation for

the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just takin his thugged-out lil' place up in one of tha middle

rows when two playas whom he knew by sight yo, but had never spoken to, came

unexpectedly tha fuck into tha room. One of dem was a hoe whom he often passed

in tha corridors yo. Dude did not know her name yo, but he knew dat dat biiiiatch hit dat shizzle in

the Fiction Department. Presumably - since dat schmoooove muthafucka had sometimes peeped her with

oily handz n' carryin a spanner dat freaky freaky biatch had some mechanical thang on one of the

novel-writin machines. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was a funky-ass bold-lookin girl, of bout twenty-seven,

with thick hair, a gangbangin' freckled face, n' swift, athletic movements fo' realz. A narrow scarlet

sash, emblem of tha Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound nuff muthafuckin times round

the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough ta brang up tha shapelinizz of her

hips. Winston had disliked her from tha straight-up ﬁrst moment of seein her muthafuckin ass yo. He

knew tha reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was cuz of tha atmosphere of hockey-ﬁeldz n' cold

baths n' hood hikes n' general clean-mindednizz which she managed

to carry bout wit her muthafuckin ass yo. Dude disliked nearly all women, n' especially tha lil'

and pretty ones. It was always tha women, n' above all tha lil' ones, who

were da most thugged-out bigoted adherentz of tha Party, tha swallowerz of slogans, the

amateur spies n' nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But dis particular hoe gave him

the impression of bein mo' fucked up than most. Once when they passed in

the corridor she gave his ass a quick sidelong glizzle which seemed ta pierce right

into his ass n' fo' a moment had ﬁlled his ass wit black terror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da idea had even

crossed his crazy-ass mind dat she might be a agent of tha Thought Popo. That, it

was true, was straight-up unlikely. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, his schmoooove ass continued ta feel a peculiar uneasiness,

which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever dat biiiiatch was anywhere

5near his muthafuckin ass.

Da other thug was a playa named O'Brien, a gangmember of tha Inner Party

and holda of some post so blingin n' remote dat Winston had only a

dim idea of its nature fo' realz. A momentary hush passed over tha crew of people

round tha chairs as they saw tha black overallz of a Inner Jam member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly playa wit a thick neck n' a cold-ass lil coarse,

humorous, brutal face. In spite of his wild lil' formidable appearizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had a cold-ass lil certain

charm of manner yo. Dude had a trick of resettlin his spectaclez on his nozzle which

was curiously disarmin - up in some indeﬁnable way, curiously civilized. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It was a

gesture which, if mah playas had still thought up in such terms, might have recalled an

eighteenth-century nobleman oﬀerin his snuﬀbox. Winston had peeped O'Brien

like a thugged-out dozen times up in almost as nuff muthafuckin years yo. Dude felt deeply drawn ta him,

and not solely cuz da thug was intrigued by tha contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner n' his thugged-out lil' prize-ﬁghter's physique. Much mo' it was cuz of

a secretly held belief - or like not even a funky-ass belief, merely a hope - that

O'Brien's polistical orthodoxy was not perfect. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang up in his wild lil' grill suggested

it irresistibly fo' realz. And again, like it was not even unorthodoxy dat was written

in his wild lil' grill yo, but simply intelligence. But at any rate dat schmoooove muthafucka had tha appearizzle of

bein a thug dat you could rap ta if somehow you could cheat tha telescreen

and git his ass ridin' solo. Winston had never made tha smallest eﬀort ta verify this

guess: indeed, there was no way of bustin so fo' realz. At dis moment O'Brien glanced

at his wrist-watch, saw dat it was nearly eleven hundred, n' evidently decided

to stay up in tha Recordz Department until tha Two Minutes Hate was over yo. He

took a cold-ass lil chair up in tha same stupid-ass row as Winston, a cold-ass lil couple places away fo' realz. A small,

sandy-haired biatch whoz ass hit dat shizzle up in tha next cubicle ta Winston was between

them. Da hoe wit dark afro was chillin immediately behind.

Da next moment a hideous, grindin rap, az of some monstrous machine

hustlin without oil, burst from tha big-ass telescreen all up in tha end of tha room. It

was a noise dat set one's teeth on edge n' bristled tha afro all up in tha back of

one's neck. Da Hate had started.

As usual, tha grill of Emmanuel Goldstein, tha Enemy of tha Muthafuckas, had

ﬂashed on ta tha screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was hisses here n' there among tha crew. Da lil sandy-haired biatch gave a squeak of mingled fear n' disgust.

Goldstein was tha renegade n' backslider whoz ass once, long ago (how long ago,

no muthafucka like remembered), had been one of tha leadin ﬁgurez of tha Party,

almost on a level wit Big Brutha his dirty ass, n' then had engaged up in counterrevolutionary activities, had been condemned ta dirtnap, n' had mysteriously

escaped n' disrocked up. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da programmez of tha Two Minutes Hate varied

from dizzle ta dizzle yo, but there was none up in which Goldstein was not tha principal

ﬁgure yo. Dude was tha primal traitor, tha earliest deﬁla of tha Party's puritizzle fo' realz. All

subsequent crimes against tha Party, all treacheries, actz of sabotage, heresies,

deviations, sprang directly outta his cold-ass teaching. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere or other da thug was still

kickin it n' hatchin his conspiracies: like somewhere beyond tha sea, under

the protection of his wild lil' foreign paymasters, like even - so it was occasionally

rumoured - up in some hiding-place up in Oceania itself.

Winston's diaphragm was constricted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time yo. Dude could never peep tha grill of Goldstein without a fucked up mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, wit a

pimped out fuzzy aureole of white afro n' a lil' small-ass goatee beard - a cold-ass lil smart-ass face, and

yet somehow inherently despicable, wit a kind of senile sillinizz up in tha long thin

nose, near tha end of which a pair of spectaclez was perched. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It resembled the

6face of a sheep, n' tha voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was deliverin his usual venomous battle upon tha doctrinez of tha Jam - a attack

so exaggerated n' perverse dat a cold-ass lil lil pimp should done been able ta peep through

it, n' yet just plausible enough ta ﬁll one wit a alarmed feelin dat other

people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken up in by it yo. Dude was abusing

Big Brutha, da thug was denouncin tha dictatorshizzle of tha Party, da thug was demandin tha immediate conclusion of peace wit Eurasia, da thug was advocatin freedom

of rap, freedom of tha Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he

was bustin up like a biatch hysterically dat tha revolution had been betrayed - n' all this

in rapid polysyllabic rap which was a sort of parody of tha habitual steez of

the oratorz of tha Party, n' even contained Shitpeak lyrics: mo' Shitpeak

lyrics, indeed, than any Jam member would normally bust up in real thuglife fo' realz. And all

the while, lest one should be up in any doubt as ta tha realitizzle which Goldstein's

specious claptrap covered, behind his head on tha telescreen there marched the

endless columnz of tha Eurasian army - row afta row of solid-lookin men

with expressionless Asiatic faces, whoz ass swam up ta tha surface of tha screen and

vanished, ta be replaced by others exactly similar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da dull rhythmic tramp of

the soldiers' boots formed tha background ta Goldstein's bleatin voice.

Before tha Hate had proceeded fo' thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamationz of rage was breakin up from half tha playas up in tha room. Da selfsatisﬁed sheep-like grill on tha screen, n' tha terrifyin juice of tha Eurasian

army behind it, was too much ta be borne: besides, tha sight or even the

thought of Goldstein produced fear n' anger automatically yo. Dude was a object

of hatred mo' constant than either Eurasia or Eastsideasia, since when Oceania

was at war wit one of these Juices it was generally at peace wit tha other.

But what tha fuck was strange was dat although Goldstein was hated n' despised

by everybody, although every last muthafuckin dizzle n' a thousand times a thugged-out day, on platforms,

on tha telescreen, up in newspapers, up in books, his cold-ass theories was refuted, smashed,

ridiculed, held up ta tha general gaze fo' tha pitiful rubbish dat they was in

spite of all this, his crazy-ass muthafuckin inﬂuence never seemed ta grow less fo' realz. Always there were

fresh dupes waitin ta be seduced by his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. A dizzle never passed when spies and

saboteurs actin under his fuckin lil' directions was not unmaxed by tha Thought Popo yo. Dude was tha commander of a vast shadowy army, a underground network

of conspirators dedicated ta tha overthrow of tha State. Da Bruthahood, its

name was supposed ta be. There was also whispered storiez of a terrible book,

a compendium of all tha heresies, of which Goldstein was tha lyricist n' which

circulated clandestinely here n' there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. It was a funky-ass book without a title. Muthafuckas

referred ta it, if at all, simply as tha book. But one knew of such thangs only

all up in vague rumours. Neither tha Bruthahood nor tha book was a subject

that any ordinary Jam member would mention if there was a way of avoiding

it.

In its second minute tha Hate rose ta a gangbangin' frenzy. Muthafuckas was leapin up

and down up in they places n' shoutin all up in tha topz of they voices up in a eﬀort

to drown tha maddenin bleatin voice dat came from tha screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da lil

sandy-haired biatch had turned bright pink, n' her grill was openin and

shuttin like dat of a landed ﬁsh. Even O'Brien's heavy grill was ﬂushed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! He

was chillin straight-up straight up in his chair, his bangin chest swellin n' quivering

as though da thug was standin up ta tha assault of a wave. Da dark-haired girl

behind Winston had begun bustin up like a biatch up 'Swine biaaatch! Swine biaaatch! Swine!' n' suddenly

she picked up a heavy Shitpeak doggtionary n' ﬂung it all up in tha screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It struck

7Goldstein's nozzle n' bounced oﬀ; tha voice continued inexorably. In a lucid

moment Winston found dat da thug was shoutin wit tha others n' kickin his

heel violently against tha rung of his chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da wack thang bout tha Two

Minutes Hate was not dat one was obliged ta act a part yo, but, on tha contrary,

that it was impossible ta avoid joinin in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Within thirty secondz any pretence

was always unnecessary fo' realz. A hideous ecstasy of fear n' vindictiveness, a thugged-out desire

to kill, ta torture, ta smash faces up in wit a sledge-hammer, seemed ta ﬂow

all up in tha whole crew of playas like a electric current, turnin one even

against one's will tha fuck into a grimacing, beatboxin lunatic fo' realz. And yet tha rage that

one felt was a abstract, unpimped up emotion which could be switched from one

object ta another like tha ﬂame of a funky-ass blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's

hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all yo, but, on tha contrary, against

Big Brutha, tha Party, n' tha Thought Popo; n' at such moments his heart

went up ta tha lonely, derided heretic on tha screen, sole guardian of truth and

sanitizzle up in a ghetto of lies fo' realz. And yet tha straight-up next instant da thug was at one wit the

people bout him, n' all dat was holla'd of Goldstein seemed ta his ass ta be true.

At dem moments his secret loathang of Big Brutha chizzled tha fuck into adoration,

and Big Brutha seemed ta tower up, a invincible, fearless protector, standing

like a rock against tha hordez of Asia, n' Goldstein, up in spite of his crazy-ass muthafuckin isolation,

his muthafuckin helplessness, n' tha doubt dat hung bout his straight-up existence, seemed like

some sinista enchanter, capable by tha mere juice of his voice of wreckin the

structure of civilization.

It was even possible, at moments, ta switch one's hatred dis way or that

by a voluntary act. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly, by tha sort of violent eﬀort wit which one

wrenches one's head away from tha pillow up in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in

transferrin his hatred from tha grill on tha screen ta tha dark-haired hoe behind

him. Vivid, dope hallucinations ﬂashed all up in his crazy-ass mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude would ﬂog

her ta dirtnap wit a rubber truncheon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would tie her naked ta a stake and

shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would ravish her n' cut her

throat all up in tha moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why

it was dat dat schmoooove muthafucka hated her muthafuckin ass yo. Dude hated her cuz dat biiiiatch was lil' n' pretty and

sexless, cuz da thug wanted ta git all up in bed wit her n' would never do so, cuz

round her dope supple waist, which seemed ta ask you ta encircle it wit your

arm, there was only tha odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

Da Hate rose ta its climax. Da voice of Goldstein had become a actual

sheep's bleat, n' fo' a instant tha grill chizzled tha fuck into dat of a sheep. Then

the sheep-face melted tha fuck into tha ﬁgure of a Eurasian soldier whoz ass seemed ta be advancing, big-ass n' terrible, his sub-machine glock roaring, n' seemin ta spring

out of tha surface of tha screen, so dat a shitload of tha playas up in tha front row

muthafuckin ﬂinched backwardz up in they seats. But up in tha same stupid-ass moment, drawin a

deep sigh of relief from everybody, tha hostile ﬁgure melted tha fuck into tha grill of Big

Brutha, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of juice n' mysterious calm,

and so vast dat it almost ﬁlled up tha screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. No Mothafucka heard what tha fuck Big Brutha

was saying. It was merely a gangbangin' few lyricz of encouragement, tha sort of lyrics that

are uttered up in tha din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring

conﬁdence by tha fact of bein spoken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then tha grill of Big Brutha faded away

again, n' instead tha three sloganz of tha Jam stood up in bold capitals:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

8But tha grill of Big Brutha seemed ta persist fo' nuff muthafuckin secondz on the

screen, as though tha impact dat it had made on everyone's eyeballs was too

vivid ta wear oﬀ immediately. Da lil sandy-haired biatch had ﬂung her muthafuckin ass

forward over tha back of tha chair up in front of her muthafuckin ass. With a tremulous murmur

that sounded like 'I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah Saviour!' she extended her arms towardz tha screen.

Then da hoe buried her grill up in her hands. It was apparent dat dat biiiiatch was utterin a

prayer.

At dis moment tha entire crew of playas broke tha fuck into a thugged-out deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ... B-B!' - over n' over again, straight-up slowly, wit a long

pause between tha ﬁrst 'B' n' tha second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, up in tha background of which one seemed ta hear tha stamp

of naked feet n' tha throbbin of tom-toms. For like as much as thirty

secondz they kept it up. It was a refrain dat was often heard up in moments of

overwhelmin emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Partly it was a sort of hymn ta tha wisdom n' majesty

of Big Brutha yo, but still mo' it was a act of self-hypnosis, a thugged-out deliberate drownin of consciousnizz by meanz of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails seemed to

grow cold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In tha Two Minutes Hate his schmoooove ass could not muthafuckin help pluggin up in tha general

delirium yo, but dis sub-human chantin of 'B-B! ... B-B!' always ﬁlled his ass with

horror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Of course his schmoooove ass chanted wit tha rest: it was impossible ta do otherwise.

To dissemble yo' vibe, ta control yo' face, ta do what tha fuck mah playas else was

bustin, was a instinctizzle erection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But there was a space of a cold-ass lil couple seconds

durin which tha expression of his wild lil' fuckin eyes might conceivably have betrayed his muthafuckin ass.

And it was exactly at dis moment dat tha signiﬁcant thang happened - if,

indeed, it did happen.

Momentarily his schmoooove ass caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up yo. Dude had taken

oﬀ his spectaclez n' was up in tha act of resettlin dem on his nozzle wit his

characteristic gesture. But there was a gangbangin' fraction of a second when they eyes

met, n' fo' as long as it took ta happen Winston knew - yes, he knew! -

that O'Brien was thankin tha same stupid-ass thang as his dirty ass fo' realz. An unmistakable message

had passed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It was as though they two mindz had opened n' tha thoughts were

ﬂowin from one tha fuck into tha other all up in they eyes. 'I be wit you,' O'Brien

seemed ta be sayin ta his muthafuckin ass. 'I know precisely what tha fuck yo ass is feeling. I know all

about yo' contempt, yo' hatred, yo' disgust. But don't worry, I be on your

side!' And then tha ﬂash of intelligence was gone, n' O'Brien's grill was as

inscrutable as dem hoes else's.

That was all, n' da thug was already uncertain whether it had happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Such

incidents never had any sequel fo' realz. All dat they did was ta keep kickin it up in him

the belief, or hope, dat others besides his dirty ass was tha enemiez of tha Party.

Perhaps tha rumourz of vast underground conspiracies was legit afta all -

like tha Bruthahood straight-up existed hommie biaaatch! It was impossible, up in spite of tha endless

arrests n' confessions n' executions, ta be shizzle dat tha Bruthahood was

not simply a myth. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some minutes his thugged-out lil' punk-ass believed up in it, some minutes not. There was no

evidence, only ﬂeetin glimpses dat might mean anythang or nothing: snatches

of overheard conversation, faint scribblez on lavatory walls - once, even, when

two strangers met, a lil' small-ass movement of tha hand which had looked as though

it might be a signal of recognition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was all guesswork: straight-up likely dat schmoooove muthafucka had

imagined every last muthafuckin thang yo. Dude had gone back ta his cubicle without lookin at O'Brien

again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da idea of followin up they momentary contact hardly crossed his

mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It would done been inconceivably fucked up even if dat schmoooove muthafucka had known how tha fuck to

set bout bustin dat shit. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged a equivocal

9glance, n' dat was tha end of tha story. But even dat was a trippy event,

in tha locked lonelinizz up in which one had ta live.

Winston roused his dirty ass n' sat up straighter yo. Dude let up a funky-ass belch. Da gin

was risin from his stomach.

His eyes re-focused on tha page yo. Dude discovered dat while da perved-out muthafucka sat muthafuckin helplessly

musin dat schmoooove muthafucka had also been writing, as though by automatic action. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And it was

no longer tha same stupid-ass cramped, awkward handwritin as before yo. His pen had slid

voluptuously over tha smooth paper, printin up in big-ass neat capitals

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

over n' over again, ﬁllin half a page.

Dude could not muthafuckin help feelin a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since tha writing

of dem particular lyrics was not mo' fucked up than tha initial act of opening

the diary yo, but fo' a moment da thug was tempted ta tear up tha spoiled pages and

abandon tha enterprise altogether.

Dude did not do so, however, cuz he knew dat it was useless. Whether

he freestyled DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing

it, made no diﬀerence. Whether da thug went on wit tha diary, or whether da ruffneck did

not go on wit it, made no diﬀerence. Da Thought Popo would git his ass just

the same yo. Dude had committed - would still have committed, even if dat schmoooove muthafucka had

never set pen ta paper - tha essential crime dat contained all others up in itself.

Thoughtcrime, they called dat shit. Thoughtcrime was not a thang dat could be

concealed fo' eva. I be runnin hoes up in 2013. Yo ass might dodge successfully fo' a while, even fo' muthafuckin years yo, but

sooner or later they was bound ta git yo thugged-out ass.

It was always at night - tha arrests invariably happened at night. The

sudden jerk outta chill, tha rough hand bobbin yo' shoulder, tha lights glaring

in yo' eyes, tha rang of hard faces round tha bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In tha vast majoritizzle of cases

there was no trial, no report of tha arrest. Muthafuckas simply disrocked up, always

durin tha night. Yo Crazy-Ass name was removed from tha registers, every last muthafuckin record of

everythang you had eva done was wiped out, yo' one-time existence was denied

and then forgotten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass was abolished, annihilated: vaporized was tha usual

word.

For a moment da thug was seized by a kind of hysteria yo. Dude fuckin started freestylin up in a

hurried untidy scrawl:

theyll blast me i don't care theyll blast me up in tha back of tha neck i dont

care down wit big-ass brutha they always blast you up in tha back of tha neck i dont

care down wit big-ass brutha

Dude sat back up in his chair, slightly ashamed of his dirty ass, n' laid down tha pen.

Da next moment da perved-out muthafucka started violently. There was a knockin all up in tha door.

Already dawwwwg! Dude sat as still as a mouse, up in tha futile hope dat whoever it was

might go away afta a single attempt. But no, tha knockin was repeated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. The

worst thang of all would be ta delay yo. His ass was thumpin like a thugged-out drum yo, but

his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless yo. Dude gots up n' moved

heavily towardz tha door.


End file.
